


In to the Visible

by ForestStars



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Original Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:41:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25222579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForestStars/pseuds/ForestStars
Summary: Adding this quickly because my portfolio is small. Hi PO! I don't have a ton of fanfic to my name but here's a short original piece I wrote!A fanciful fairy tale I picture illustrated in stained glass style. :)





	In to the Visible

Once the passage of time brings the shift’s ending near, the shift workers’ minds are adrift and unclear. The last few of the products roll past the bland stares. Odd-shaped bits of plastic are slapped on in pairs. The product’s a product; beyond that, few care. The workers ship in from the surrounding towns, and the products ship out to consumers unknown.

A tired bell sounds and the workers disperse. Fluorescent-lit concrete does nothing to show the faces that into the dark streets now go. Invisible then and invisible now. Wordless, one invisible woman joins the line for the train.

The train moves along as it did yesterday, and Monday will see this woman train-bound again. Today is tomorrow; tomorrow, the past. This year could be next; it’s the same as the last. She’s twenty, she’s thirty, she’s seventy-four – not really, but she’d rather not count anymore.

A squeal of the brakes by the station: she’s stopping. The rest of her houseward commute is by walking.

The hands of the clock that’s in front of the bank are clicking toward midnight when the woman walks by. She looks up, but sees no stars piercing the dull glow of the city-lit sky. Refocusing her eyes on the ground a few feet forward on the blacktop sidewalk, she forgets about the stars.

Cars sweep by and creep by, and she walks as if she has a purpose. She’s proud of this skill as she’s proud of her work. Plainly purposed people pass by the eyes easily, with the illusion of visibility, the illusion of necessity. No one’s eyes notice her lack of design. She’s slippery, friction-free, visibly invisible. Nobody needs her. She walks from work to weekend and wonders if anyone knows.

A breeze breaks a leaf of newsprint from a nearby waste bin, and she pulls her coat closer against the late autumn air. The paper pirouettes and plays in the street while the wind plays with her hair. Car after car runs over the newsprint, but battered and bent it continues to follow the breeze.

Step, step, step, step and she’s lost in the pace. The street lamps grow sparse as she nears her own place. In darkness, invisible’s heart quickens pace, but is careful to not let it show in her face. Her steps remain even; her breath remains calm. She’s past the last lamp and turns onto the grass.

A short-cut, a trespass. She’s never been caught. Her neighbors will never see her, even if they look out their big picture windows. It’s more difficult without the moon and stars, but her feet follow memory. She makes her way houseward.

No stars? Then what’s that? A flickering light, like the eye of a cat, but brighter. A flying fire; a firefly. This fly stops blinking; it’s stuck on the glow. Slowly it brightens. Curiosity heightens. It beckons, a beacon; the woman keeps walking. Eyes fixed on the light point, she turns from her typical route. It hangs in the air, a sparkle at shoulder height, ever in front of her, dancing back like a fisherman’s lure.

She falters, unsure. She’s reached the hedge at the edge of the lawn. The bright point is dancing, pulsating beyond. It’s inside the hedge. She reaches and pulls back a branch. It breaks, and the hedge shakes. She steps forward, and again the light retreats. Her body now close to the towering plant, the bright point seems closer. The light of it’s white, with a glimmer of gold in the flickering rays. She presses on into the hedge, her mind in a daze. One touch – one glimpse – she must know why it shines.

She shoulders through branches that pull at her hair. The light beckons onward, erasing all cares. Was the hedge this deep? Was the air this warm? The light is still moving, so still she moves on.

Just as she breaks from the hedge’s dark grasp, the bright point bursts brighter and trespasser gasps. Throwing her arms up in front of her face, she closes her eyes against a world made of light. Her eyelids burn red, and then the color subsides to a duller maroon.  
It’s still bright, but her eyes have adjusted. Slowly she opens them, seeing bright green. The grass here’s the healthiest she’s ever seen. She lowers her arms and lifts up her gaze. It’s daylight, bright daylight; it could be midday. If the bright point is still here, ‘twould be terribly faint.

She turns, expecting the dark hedge to tower behind. There’s nothing. No remnant of what she had left. A thin forest bright with slender young trees spreads out where the hedge is supposed to be. She stands in a clearing, beneath a blue sky. By the comfortable warmth it could be near July. She’s puzzled but pleased, and her shoulders slip free from her careworn coat.

She breathes, and smells oxygen. Healthy air, full of life rather than city and smoke. In the city, the thickening air made her choke. Here she smells sweet-scented lilac and rose, which greet her eyes as warmly as her nose. Colors are bright and the flowers abundant. They flow from the forest right down to a river, sparkling in sunlight. She shivers.

Beside the wide river that swishes and whispers, she spies movement. A boy, barely seven. He watches the water or something beyond. To our shift worker’s maternal confusion, she’s fond of the faint yellow overalled figure before her. Alone in the woods? Why no parents as guard? Her feet are drawn on, and she moves to the river.

Beside the wide river is also a jumble of stones piled up well above the boy’s height. He struggles to lift one with all of his might. The strain on his features is clear as the air, and our woman jumps forward to help. She slips her hands under the stone and they lift it together. The boy’s smile is bright as he looks up in thanks, and he edges his feet toward the river’s near bank.

They edge there together, our woman and boy, sidestepping quickly to the water’s edge. The boy gives a heave and the stone goes aloft. A split second later it splashes and plops. The victory’s vanished, except for the ripples, but the boy is still radiant with gradients of joy. He skips back to the rock pile.

Selecting a second stone, he bends as if to lift it alone. Our worker is there in a second to assist. Surely the boy needs some help still with this.

She pauses partway, frowns, thinks. Her work-weary soul doubts, and sinks. How could she help? What use could she be? No creature, she thinks, is as useless as she.

Yet the boy’s steady eyes look at her, and they see. His unsteady legs are an unspoken plea. Her arms grip that stone. She’s determined to not let the boy work alone.

Stone after stone goes kersplash in the river. The boy and his helper bear each great rock thither. Terrific kerthunks then replace the kersplash, and rock upon rock seems to build a smooth path. The pile has shrunk. Our heroine heaves the last stone.

She neglects to notice how much time has flown.

The boy grabs her hand and tugs her toward the water. He hops on a rock with a beatific grin, and she lurches, afraid they’ll fall in. They don’t. She blinks. While stone after stone she’s been joyfully throwing, a wide stone bridge had been gradually growing! Still feeling the tug of the boy’s little hand, she walks on the water that’s now become land.

A shape has appeared on the bridge’s far end. The boy’s hand slips free and he runs to its side, with his helper happily following behind. They meet in the middle, and crash, reunite. The dog is all wriggles and licks the boy’s face, and the boy and his friend share a furry embrace. Light seems to shine from the boy’s joyous smile. He stands and turns that smile to his new friend, while the dog stands wagfully by. The boy selects a smallish stone resting loose on the bridge.

He presses the rock into her palm. When she closes her fingers it fits in her hand. It’s perfectly round and smooth, and surprisingly heavy. He looks up into her eyes. She can’t look away.  
The light fades, beginning with the corners of her vision. Have they passed the whole day? Wait – why would light linger in the middle? The world grows steadily darker, until the boy’s eyes are the only points of light in a sudden night. They cross, connect, and the bright point returns, flickering, dancing away. It fades, and she’s buried beneath blackness denser than a deadbolt.

~♦~

“Hello? Can you hear me? Wake up, wake up!”

“She’s not moving... what was she doing, wandering around with no jacket on a night like tonight?”  
“She’s breathing, at least. Lucky the dog found her. What an hour of the night to be taking a walk!”  
“Oh, I think she’s waking up. Hold on, no need to call an ambulance yet.”

Our traveler opens her eyes. Her first thought is that the bright point is back again, until she realizes that her two neighbors are pointing flashlights at her face. When they notice her blinking and squinting, they point the lights at the ground beside her.  
She’s lying on her back, next to the hedge. She blinks some more, trying to clear her head. Has she been asleep? Where is her coat?  
She soon becomes aware that her right hand is clenched tightly, and it feels heavy. Opening her hand, she finds a smooth, round stone.  
She smiles because she remembers the product and the consumer. No – the gift, and the recipient.

“Are you okay, miss? What’s your name?” one of her neighbors asks with genuine concern.

The woman at whom these questions are addressed props herself up on her elbows, one by one. She looks at her neighbors. They look at her. To her surprise, she thinks they see her. She bends her knees and brings her feet beneath her, then leans on her left hand to push herself up. She rises to her feet and speaks.

“My name,” she says, “is Margaret.”


End file.
